Tough to be a Cat

Not only is it tough to be a cat, it's getting tougher. Not.

The cats now have the chance to eat better than I do. Thanks to Purina, I can now buy "Elegant Medleys" for my cats. These sound like something I would prepare for a fancy Sunday morning brunch. For your enjoyment, might I suggest:

Wild Salmon and Whipped Egg Souffle with Garden Greens

or perhaps

Shredded Yellowfish Tuna Fare in a Savory Broth with Garden Greens (would that be Sushi for Sushi?)

What's the point? I know these cats. They go outside, they immediately feast on the garden greens (AKA "grass on the lawn") then come in and throw up on the carpet.

Lemon Scented, Redux

The boys have been doing a lot of the grocery shopping this summer. They're pretty good at it, and as they are sometimes allowed to "keep the change" from my estimated total, they are pretty bargain savvy as well (although they are dismayed by just how closely I can estimate the bill; there isn't a whole lot of change, anyway!).

A couple of days ago, they came home very pleased with themselves. They'd found and purchased yet another roll of Lemon Scented Paper Towels. Just for me.

Anniversary

Next month, Dave and I will have been married for 24 years (more than half my life, if anyone's counting). Today, I got my anniversary gift (a bit early, but who can complain?)

It's sleek and shiny and silver. The motor purrs and it's WAY energy efficient. Top of the line. The best. The neighbors couldn't help but notice when it arrived. It's sitting outside right now, and I'm planning to use it EVERY day for the next three months...The novelty won't wear off any time soon!

* * * * * * * *

Yes, due to complications detailed in "Thermocline", I'm the proud new owner of a new air conditioning system for the upstairs of the house. Not surprisingly, Dave's getting the same thing. The price tag rivals what we paid last year for four people to take a vacation to Canada.

I'm not complaining. We've shared several anniversaries like this one, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Looking back...

Anniversary #1. It's the "Paper" anniversary. Dave got his "Paper" in the form of his diploma, and around Anniversary #1, we set up housekeeping in a new state, new jobs, new life. Soon afterward, we did buy a shiny new car, which lasted us 14 years - longer than the majority of marriages in the U.S., so that's something worth celebrating. The same car went through 3 hoods while we owned it. Don't ask.

Anniversary #11.
I love you so much that your kid is getting braces on her teeth. Happy anniversary!

And who could forget Anniversary #18?
Boy Scout campout.
We love our son. "Family event". On the beach.
I think I'm still finding sand where I least expect it.
Hurricane.
Evacuation.
Love you too, darlin'...

Anniversary #19
Music for the soul. A new flute. Not for me, not for Dave. It's a chance for the youngest child to find his way through the maze of middle school. A chance to prove himself, choose his own identity, show how he is different from his older siblings. The promise of tomorrow lies mute in a padded case, waiting to teach and to be taught. Another amazing product of the marriage. Happy anniversary.

Anniversary #20
Spent on opposite ends of the country, settling oldest child into her new college life. Passing the torch, as it were. This was one of the life goals, admirably achieved. One down, two to go. Happy anniversary.

Yes, some day I'd like to go on a cruise. I have my eye on the Alaskan "inside passage". I'd not mind a trip to London, Paris, Tokyo or Cairo. But today? I'll take the air conditioner, and know that it represents stability and promises still being kept, 24 years later.

Love you too, darlin'.

Thermocline

ther·mo·cline n.
A layer in a large body of fluid, such as a lake, that sharply separates regions differing in temperature, so that the temperature gradient across the layer is abrupt.

A thermocline in the pond in the meadow means that the critters are living where they should and the plants are growing as one would expect for the biome and the proper mixing takes place between bottom of the pond and the top.

A thermocline halfway up the stairs in central Texas in the middle of July means that the upstairs air conditioning unit has gone out.

Rosemary Bonsai

There's a rather questionable garden area in our front yard, along the side of the garage and running along the sidewalk to the front door. It's hot, dry, in full sun most of the day and the area has been planted with some lanky but thriving herbs for several years. After all, what is an herb but a weed with an honorable name, and weeds thrive in the unhospitable conditions of that plot.

Early this summer, it became apparent that the plot was also home to at least one good sized Rat Snake; possibly to a family of them. While the snakes are harmless, they are still a bit startling when found on the front porch, waiting, when one gets home. Dave suggested that the weeds (ahem...HERBS) be cleared out or at least cut way, way back, to encourage Chester-the-Snake and his buddies to find new lodgings.

The herbs are mostly gone now, with the exception of one very large Rosemary plant. That one, I cut back. Alex wants to know if I'm planning a new career in Bonsai.

Male Fraud

We have a problem at our house with one segment of the current technology. That segment is e-mail. The problem is getting the two youngest members of the family to CHECK the e-mail.

Maybe it's a guy thing. From the time we got our first home computer and internet connection, when Elizabeth was in 7th grade, she lived for e-mail and eventually for Instant Message programs. The written word flying through cyberspace was her medium of choice for keeping up with friends, looking at college choices, comparing notes on homework assignments.

For the boys? Not so much. Nothing seemed to convince them of the necessity in today's world of checking their e-mail daily, if not even more often.

Finally, in desperation, I resorted to bribery, e-mailing them a message that said "Print this e-mail and exchange for $5". I put an expiration date on the deal, roughly 36 hours after I hit "send". Surely THAT would do the trick. Either they would check their e-mail and be $5 richer, or they would NOT check their e-mail, discover it too late and be sorry, but learn the lesson for the future. I was pleased with my apparent solution to the problem.

I didn't count on the inventive minds on the other end of the system.

Which child's sin is greater?

The child who read the notice and seriously considered adding a zero to the text and claiming FIFTY dollars in place of five?

Or the child who hit "Print 5" and presented me with a stack of printed messages, claiming to deserve a reward of 5 x 5 = $25?

Lemon Scented

There are things that seem to be a good idea at first glance. There are things that look so "right", until you think about them for a moment. So correct, until one puts them into practice.

One of these things is "Lemon Scented Paper Towels".

There they were, in the vast array of paper towels available at the local HEB. The price was right (they were on sale!), the quality appeared to be on par with any paper towels I ever purchased, and how could I argue with a pretty lemon print design? The fact that they were "lemon scented, right down to the roll" seemed fine. I had visions of wiping my kitchen counters and leaving that fresh lemon scent behind.

I bought the roll.

Thank the powers that be that I only bought ONE roll.

I hadn't really thought too much about all the OTHER ways we use paper towels. Besides wiping the kitchen counters.

For your edification:

Tortillas, placed between paper towels and microwaved to heat do not benefit from artificial lemon scent.

Sausages, hot and sizzling from the pan and ready to drain on a paper towel-lined plate need no lemon essence.

The cat does not appreciate her food dish set out on a lemon scented place mat.

Vegetables patted dry with that extra dash of lemon need to be rinsed and dried again.

Chicken parts patted dry are better off left plain.

Lemon paper reacts strangely with butter when greasing the pan for Rice Krispy Treats.

No one at our house requested Citrus Krispies. Nor will they again.

- - - - - - - - -

The roll is empty now. The trash can smells interestingly of lemon.

Twenty Pairs of Socks

Socks for Children in Common , knit from mid-May through early July. There's a little bit of everything in that mix...stash yarn, scrap yarn, gift yarn and even a little bit that was bought especially for this project. Since no one at our house is much interested in "girly stuff", I have to indulge my inner princess occasionally with a bit of pink, purple and turquoise.

Socks vary from 36 to 42 stitches around cuff and have foot lengths between 5 and 6-1/2 inches.

Now, I believe I'll knit something else for a few weeks.

Some Toe-Up Socks

First time for everything, and this was my first try at a "Toe-up" sock pattern. The pattern was courtesy of the folks at the Six Sox Knitalong

While I understood the concept, actually putting it into practice was a bit more interesting, especially in the area of the bottoms of the heels. As I knitted, it occurred to me that the socks looked like something that might show up at an archaeological dig adorning the mummified feet of the Bog Man or the Ice Maiden. Sort of clunky, with questionable shape and bumps in all the wrong places. Luckily, they responded well to blocking, ending up not at all "lumpy", and fitting quite nicely.

The best part? These were "free socks", made entirely of the leftovers from other socks.

Swirling Confetti Kid Socks

After the Toe Up socks were finished, I still had leftover yarn, and I'd fallen in love with the spiral pattern of purled stitches around the legs. That inspired me to make some "Kid sized" socks for CIC

The multi-colored ones are knitted with a double strand of fingering yarn, the rose ones are knitted with DK weight yarn. Both on size 3 needles (3.25 mm). I've now used up all of my scraps of fingering weight yarn, and need to start a new project.

Download the pattern here

It works. Well.

Mentos, redux

It's true. Target does sell Mentos.

In a six-roll bulk pack.

We are set.

Cell Phones

I'm not a great fan of cell phone use. I have one. Everybody in my family has one. I could easily get by on a plan offering me six minutes a month. That's how much I use it. As far as I'm concerned, the cell phone is for "I'm late", "I'm lost", "Your kid is sick, come pick him up" or "The green van isn't running...again".

Not too many people have my cell phone number, so I'm always slightly startled when it actually rings. Like it did last night, when I was at the grocery store.

It was Dave, who doesn't use his cell phone much more than I use mine (He could get by with a 12 minutes per month plan, to allow for a 30 second call every day to tell me he's leaving work). It's good to have it, though, as in this case, to add a forgotten item to the grocery list.

What did he want? A 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke and a package of Mentos candies.

Mentos? Yeah, you know...

These:


Both requests were pretty much out of character. No one at our house drinks Diet Coke, and certainly no one drinks 2 liters of it. While we do like Mentos, they aren't a household staple, once in a great while someone buys a packet at the cash register at a restaurant. I said "I would check", but I had my doubts about finding them at HEB.

The soda aisle presented a quandry, and resulted in an unheard of RETURN cell phone call for clarification. I could find Diet PEPSI in 2-liter bottles, or Diet COKE in 3-liters. Both were available in cans, Pepsi also offered the 20-ounce resealable bottle option. I felt pretty silly standing in front of the carbonated beverages and calling home to clarify, "Which was more important? Coke versus Pepsi or 2- versus 3-liters?"

And as I suspected, Mentos were not available at the checkstands with the gum and Life Savers. Not with the shelves of candies, cookies or snacks, either. I took my TWO liters of Diet Pepsi and went home.

It was getting dark by then, so it didn't matter. The diet soda and candies would have waited until today, anyway (when, as luck would have it, I'm going to Target. Pretty sure they sell Mentos at Target).

I'll just add that the only thing possibly more dangerous than unlimited cell phone use in public would be...unlimited Web Surfing by three men left at home.

To find out what all the excitement was about,
Click Here

Tale of Two Tables

There's something no one tells you about having three children.

They don't fit around the kitchen table.

Most of those pretty kitchen sets at the furniture store have 4 nice matching chairs and space for one chair on each side. Sure, maybe you can add a leaf to the table and create some elbow room, but you'll still have to import a desk chair or a folding chair, or in our case, bring in one from the dining room. Ever since the day Isaac graduated from the high-chair-in-the-corner and joined the rest of us at the dinner table, we jostled the positions, always with not quite enough room on one side. Chair order was determined partly by size of the person, partly by who was least likely to LOOK AT someone else and make them cry, and partly by request (Alex didn't talk for a long, long time. When he finally started talking and demanded loudly "TO SIT BY DAD!", you can bet he sat by Dad).

There was never quite enough space on that one side of the table, but good humor and love made a way.

Four years ago, Elizabeth and I flew 2000 miles, across half a continent, as she embarked on her college career. We spent 3 bittersweet days learning Boston and settling her into her new life. I felt I handled the whole thing admirably well, sad to leave her there, yet envious of the adventures ahead of her. It was only when I returned home and removed the fifth chair from the kitchen table that the enormity of the situation hit me. We no longer had need of the cumbersome 5th chair, there was space around the table for the remaining 4 of us, and I wept for the family that would never be quite the same, ever again.

Last weekend, I ate a chicken sandwich at another kitchen table. It's not a new table. It's seen better days, really. It's a bit battered, and it's crammed into a kitchen that is just nearly too small for it and its four matching ladderback chairs. It was crowded with the detritus of a hurried move across the city; just a day between a triumphant graduation and the beginning of a new job.

Elizabeth, it's your table now, and I'm the guest, not the host. No parents could be more proud.

I sat next to Rainman

Dustin Hoffman in "Rainman"...remember him? Idiot-savant in the 1988 movie? Today, he'd be labeled as "on the Autism Spectrum".

And so, I suspect, would Brian.

I sat next to Brian last evening on the longest 30 minute plane ride of my life (final leg of the trip to see Elizabeth graduate. Which she did, by the way. "With Highest Honours", just so you can be properly impressed. I certainly am.)

Sweet looking young man, maybe early 20's, slight of build, dressed neatly in golf shirt and khakis, wire rimmed glasses, close trimmed hair. Carrying a duffel bag with a name tag; that's how I know who he was. Slight speech impediment and a brilliant smile.

Talked CONSTANTLY from the moment I sat down until we left the airplane and I lost him. Constantly. In a high pitched, slightly nasal monotone.

I heard about (in no particular order, and several times over on each item...)

His school which was waiting dinner for him.
Computers.
Cables for computers and cablesRus.com where you can buy
specialty cables for $87.
Or sometimes $93.
87 and 93 were numbers apparently hardwired in his brain...they came up often and not necessarily in context.
He's engaged just this weekend to a girl who used to be a girlfriend but now is his fiancee; she lives in Georgia and he was on his way home after visiting her over the weekend to propose.
He met her several years ago at his school.
He's an airplane pilot and flies between Tokyo and Moscow
Problems with plane engines (his plane broke down in Minneapolis)
Repairs to engines (parts had to be ordered from Montreal)
Missing parts once the parts arrived. Plane is still out of commission.
Parents and step parents and the parents of the bride-to-be.
The engagement ring which cost $693 but he didn't have that much yet but her parents didn't mind and the ring will have diamonds shaped like hearts.
Downloading Disney movies from the internet.
The advantages of downloading movie files over buying the DVD's.
FBI rulings on copyright of videos/movies and ways to get around them.
How and where to find Disney movies for download.
Snow White, Cinderella, Scooby Doo, Tom and Jerry, Beauty and the Beast.
When downloading things like "Snow White" you have to be careful and look for "Snow White, DISNEY" or you might get porn (and did I ever see porn by mistake by downloading the wrong thing?)
32 minute flight.
Would there be time for drinks?
That short a flight it would keep the stewardesses busy to serve that many drinks and get them picked up again.
His favorite is Coke. If there are drinks, he'd have Coke.

There was time (barely). He had Coke. He wondered briefly about the sugar content, but what the hell, went for it anyway.

Horror movies. We had a good discussion on horror movies. Most of which I hadn't seen, but we did connect briefly on "The Ring" (which I hadn't seen, either, but at least I'd heard of it).
The pros and cons of taking a date to a horror movie.

There was more, but by 15 minutes into the flight, my mind was numb. Switching seats was out of the question...100% full flight. I took out my knitting and tried to look busy, but he overlooked my industry (or perhaps he overlooked my rudeness).

I'm pretty sure nothing about piloting an airplane was true.
Which makes me really wonder about the girl in Georgia.
If she's real, I wish them every happiness. She's surely a patient soul.

All I can say is...

Alex owes me. Big time.

That was originally his seat, but after check in, I traded him boarding passes so he could sit by Isaac and I would end up next to a stranger.

And what a stranger he was.

Socks Mailed in May

I've been busily knitting small socks for the children served through "Children in Common" (http://childrenincommon.org).

These two pairs were mailed in May.



Socks are made of sport weight or worsted yarn, in a high percentage of animal fiber for warmth. The foot is about 6 inches long.

His Brother's Keeper

My brother and I are close to six years apart. While we lived in the same school district during our entire school careers and had a few of the same teachers over the years, with the exception of the year I was in 6th grade and he was in kindergarten, we never attended the same school at the same time.

My sons are two years apart. They are breaking new ground for me in this department. They have very different friends and different interests, but that doesn't keep them from looking out for each other. More precisely, it doesn't keep THEIR FRIENDS from keeping a close eye on the other one...and reporting back.

It's not just reporting, though. It's more like a quiz show, heavily prefaced by "It it TRUE that...?"

Isaac found himself in the woodwinds room, surrounded by a group of girls very interested in knowing the facts. "Was it TRUE that his brother was taking SN to the prom?"

When Isaac made the decision not to sign up for band again next year, Alex was grilled by band members in math class. "Was it TRUE that his brother was dropping band?". And even more disturbing: "Does you MOM know?"

I have to love the latest gossip. Over the weekend, Alex got a haircut. His hair had been near shoulder length, thick and extremely curly. He now has a cut that would pass muster at a military inspection. This is big news. Isaac should know...he's had numerous people tell him the latest. "Did you KNOW your brother got a haircut?"

Church Baby

Isaac was a "church baby".

I first heard that term from my mom. A baby born into a family that is active and visible in the church congregation. Eagerly awaited, and greatly celebrated in its extended "church family" when it finally makes an appearance. Passed from shoulder to shoulder during Sunday School classes, familiar with every toy in the toddler nursery and the recipient of baptismal cards from assorted fond adoptive "grandmas" and "aunties".

We hadn't been members of our congregations very long when Elizabeth or Alex were born; they were welcome additions to the Cradle Roll, but not cause for any particular excitement outside a small circle of friends. By the time Isaac came along, we were heavily involved in children's choir, Sunday School and the Confirmation mentor program. EVERYONE knew we were having that baby. Generous ladies filled our freezer with casseroles, offerings of diapers appeared from nowhere and I had to explain to my mentored Confirmand that I would TRY to be at the next class activity, but babies hold their own schedules and I couldn't make any promises. (He went home and grumbled to his mom that "She looked okay to ME!").

Isaac made his first appearance at church services when he was 5 days old, causing a near traffic jam in the aisle after Communion as his fond admirers stopped to pet his spiky black hair and stroke his hands.

It's been a while since our current congregation has had a "church baby", but early last fall, word began to get around. A delightful young couple whom everybody knows and loves was expecting a very-long-awaited first child. The choir, the education committee, the Relay for Life team, the worship committee all watched and waited through Advent, Christmas, Epiphany and on into Lent. The expectant mom was radiant, the father proud. There were the requisite showers, and as April approached, gatherings began with "HAS the baby come yet?"

And then, in the best Church Baby fashion, Ella was born late on a Saturday, just in time to be the top news on Sunday morning. The pastor's announcement was greeted with smiles and silent cheers, then concern as he added that the baby was "under observation". So small, so new, Ella was in the prayers of an extended family she didn't know existed. While we worried about the baby, we also grieved as a group for her parents and the sudden shift in their expectations.

Over the next few days, phone calls and e-mails gave the details; few at first, then more. A named "syndrome", a defect in the baby's jaw and palate. There could be surgery eventually. Time, modern medicine and love would combine to work miracles.

This morning, there was a new person at "late church", wrapped in a flowered pink blanket. There was nearly a traffic jam in the aisle after Communion as adopted "grandmas" and "aunties" waited to get a peek at the new baby. It's been 3 weeks exactly since our collective worried gasp.

Today, we all welcomed Ella home.

Another year's nest

I think this one might have been 2005. One chick fell out of the nest (always traumatic) but the nest at least stayed intact. It's NEAR the corner, but still all on one wall. This year's nest is shifted fully into that corner. No photos yet.

Experimental Design

The barn swallows are back. Mr. and Mrs. B. Swallow, to be precise. This is the 5th year that a pair of the small orange-throated birds with deeply forked tails has chosen our front entryway to build a nest and raise a family. I like to think it's the same pair each year, but unless you happen to be a barn swallow, it's pretty hard to tell.

They show up one fine day in April and sit on the eaves for several days, considering the situation. Any new cats? No. Bird bath still in the garden and operational? Yep. Pesky humans still going in and out their front door? Yes, but we can tolerate them. OK, then. Build the nest!

They have chosen the same section of brick wall, 2 stories up and just under the roof for the past 4 years. The mud-and-straw nest takes them only a couple of days to complete, then mama moves in and papa takes up his post on the rain gutter, ready to swoop outward from the house, drawing attention away from the nest every time one of those humans goes through the door. His attention never wavers. Would that every mother of babies had such an attentive mate.

Honestly, I'm surprised to see them back. Two nests in the past 4 years have fallen down before the family was finished living there. One year, the chicks were nearly grown, and took Father's place on the gutter, clamoring shrilly to Mama and Dad to "Get that new nest FINISHED!". A new nest was completed in record time, and the family moved back in. Unfortunately, the babies in another year weren't so lucky; the nest plummeted to the ground long before the babies were self-sufficient and the parents had an agonizing 48 hours trying to protect their fallen chicks until they all were dead. The parents never built a second nest, but stayed disconsolately around their barren nursery for a few more weeks until their usual time of migration.

But here they are, and this year they have a new idea. Whether by actual design or by chance, this year's nest is different. All of the past nests have been semi-circular; a quarter of a solid oval cemented to the flat face of the wall. Not this year. Now, they have a quarter-circle design going; rather, an eighth of the oval solid. It's snugged up in the corner, with two walls supporting it. More brick wall, less mud and straw. Perhaps the birds have been reading up on the 3 Little Pigs and house building techniques over the winter.

I'm eagerly awaiting the results of their new design.

Easter revelations

I've been filling Easter baskets for 22 years now, and frankly, I'm running out of inspiration. (By the way, if you find the thought of bunnies and baskets not in keeping with the true celebration of Easter, this blog entry isn't for you. I've never had an problems combining the sublime with the ridiculous at Easter or at Christmas). With Easter only a few days away, I decided to change my approach. I declared myself OUT of the Easter Bunny business, and informed Alex and Isaac that each was in charge of his brother's Easter basket. This was almost a guarantee of rather unusual Easter fare, as both are devotees of role playing card and character games. I gave each a small budget and stood back.

They might have been surprised at the change in routine, but they took the news with grace and made their plans. Alex had a moment of doubt after he had been out shopping...He asked me suddenly if he "was supposed to have bought a chocolate bunny". Whatever you think, dear. It's up to you.

About 10:00 last night, there was dissatisfaction in the house. Seems that neither boy wanted to be the FIRST to go to bed. It is hard to hide a basket when the recipient is still up and roaming around. Right. That could be part of the reason I was tired of being the bunny. At length, however, baskets were hidden and lights were extinguished. All was silent.

Christ is risen, Shout hosanna!
Celebrate this day of days!
Christ is risen, Hush in wonder: all creation is amazed.
In the desert all surrounding, see, a spreading tree has grown.
Healing leaves of grace abounding bring a taste of love unknown.

Morning brought the revelation. Not only are the boys good gift shoppers, something appears to have registered from those years of Sunday School lessons and discussion of symbolism in the Church. While a bit unorthodox on the outside, the Easter Basket contents were strangely in keeping with the spirit of the day.

Isaac is the new owner of a Red/Green mixed color deck of Magic: The Gathering cards. Alex's logic was that Green represented the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Cross, mixed together with the Red of the blood of the Lamb. He also included a small pouch of 10-sided dice; dice for the casting of lots for Christ's robe, and 10 as a reminder of the 10 Commandments. The RED marshmallow Peeps stymied us at first, but on closer inspection, they fit as well. Bright red sugar on the outside, pure white on the inside. "Though your sins be as scarlet..."

Christ is risen! Raise your spirits from the caverns of despair.
Walk with gladness in the morning. See what love can do and dare.
Drink the wine of resurrection, Not a servant, but a friend,
Jesus is our strong companion. Joy and peace shall never end.

Alex's basket from Isaac showed no less thought. Isaac chose a "Trinity of Resurrection"; three items representing new life. While the two vampire models aren't exactly going to show up in a Confirmation worksheet, I couldn't argue with the life-out-of-death comparison. The Black/White Magic: The Gathering deck was even more clear cut. Because of the way the cards work with each other, it is possible, yea, even necessary, for someone to Lose a Life so that a Life may be Gained. This was explained to me over the Easter cinnamon rolls.

Christ is risen! Earth and heaven nevermore shall be the same.
Break the bread of new creation where the world is still in pain.
Tell its grim, demonic chorus: "Christ is risen! Get you gone!"
God the first and last is with us. Sing hosanna, everyone!

Vampires and Magic cards in the Easter baskets? Why not? We need have no fear of death or evil.

Christ has died.
Christ is risen.
Christ will come again.

And in the mean time, I believe that the true lessons of the Cross have been well learned.


Hymn text:
Brian Wren, 1983, Praising a Mystery, 1986
copyright © 1986 Hope Publishing Co.

"Casual Glamour Capelet"

Daughter Elizabeth chose this pattern (from Stitch Diva Studios) and I chose the yarn (Noro Cash Iroha). The yarn is a blend of silk, wool and cashmere and wonderfully fun to work with. No model available when I wanted to photograph the finished capelet, so I improvised. Elizabeth suggested that my "model" looked like it was wearing a muumuu.

Where are you from?

I substitute teach fairly regularly for one particular Algebra II teacher. He's an athletic coach, and often has "events" during the school week. It's a comfortable relationship. He gives me all of the requested dates far in advance and lets me know the lessons plans. I get to know his classes fairly well, and they rarely give me any trouble. I'm just "part of the routine".

Part of the routine is seeing the progression of kids in and out. Frequently, a new student hands me the printed office slip that spells out placement in that class, that hour. I let them know that I'm not the "real" teacher and do my best to make them feel welcome. "We're glad to have you. Where are you transferring from?"

Often it's not terribly exciting. Just changing classrooms and teachers because of a schedule conflict. Sometimes, coming from another local school. Less frequently, a move in from another city and one day last fall I met a young lady displaced to our school by Hurricane Katrina.

Today's transfer student was a bit more unusual. In a quiet, shy voice, he told me that he had come from Zambia.

Welcome. I hope you are happy here.

Springtime in Texas

Not too many "wildflowers" this year due to drought conditions, but the not-so-wild flowers in the yard are off to a nice start.

Reminder for Alex

Reminder for Elizabeth

It may not seem like it at the time, but there ARE worse things than not having your train go where you want it to, when you want it to.

(Copyright Info: Jacqueline Steiner, and Bess Lomax-Hawes. The Kingston Trio version is copyright Capitol Records.)

Let me tell you the story
Of a man named Charlie
On a tragic and fateful day
He put ten cents in his pocket,
Kissed his wife and family
Went to ride on the MTA

Charlie handed in his dime
At the Kendall Square Station
And he changed for Jamaica Plain
When he got there the conductor told him,
"One more nickel."
Charlie could not get off that train.

Chorus:
Did he ever return,
No he never returned
And his fate is still unlearn'd
He may ride forever
'neath the streets of Boston
He's the man who never returned.

Now all night long
Charlie rides through the tunnels
Saying, "What will become of me?
How can I afford to see
My sister in Chelsea
Or my cousin in Roxbury?"

Charlie's wife goes down
To the Scollay Square station
Every day at quarter past two
And through the open window
She hands Charlie a sandwich
As the train comes rumblin' through.

As his train rolled on
underneath Greater Boston
Charlie looked around and sighed:
"Well, I'm sore and disgusted
And I'm absolutely busted;
I guess this is my last long ride."

Now you citizens of Boston,
Don't you think it's a scandal
That the people have to pay and pay
Vote for Walter A. O'Brien
And fight the fare increase
Get poor Charlie off the MTA.

Chorus:
Or else he'll never return,
No he'll never return
And his fate will be unlearned
He may ride forever
'neath the streets of Boston
He's the man who never returned.
He's the man who never returned.

http://www.mit.edu:8001/people/jdreed/t/charlie.html

Sending out, Letting go

Daughter Elizabeth has lived in the Boston area for most of the past 4 years. She headed off to college there in the fall of 2002, fell in love with the New England area and has never looked back. I think she would like to be a New Englander for life, and I'd be happy to visit her there.

Toward that end, she's been interviewing for jobs in the area. As a parent, I'd like to think I can solve any problem, any time. My parental confidence was severely shaken this afternoon when the phone rang.

"Mom, could you look up the website for the MBTA?"

It seems that her short foray into the inner city for an interview, which was supposed to be a thing of only a few hours, had suddenly turned into a longer, more complicated excursion. The commuter train which was supposed to whisk her back to the campus area wasn't running. Something about a fatality on the line closing down that track, "until further notice".

I looked up the site and relayed the information I found, which was negligable. I offered alternatives (cab, call a friend, go a different route?) none of which was met with much enthusiasm. She wasn't terribly concerned...just tired and a bit put out that the day was turning out as it was.

Not concerned, except, maybe, for the drunken crowds in the area, dressed in green kilts and celebrating St. Patrick's Day with gusto.

THAT put my "mom radar" into high gear! Suddenly it seemed quite important that I KEEP her on the phone until a decision was made, a cab hailed, a train boarded. Would that my arms were long enough to reach out and carry her safely out of the city. In my soul, I walked beside her, touching her with my voice, if not with my hands. Mercifully, just about that time, a voice came over the loudspeaker, audible even over the phone line, announcing "An alternate train...soon". Elizabeth brought the call to an end and went off to wait for the new train.

Two excruciating hours later, she checked in again to report that the train had been slow, almost crawling along and stopping completely at times, but had, at last, let her off at her usual campus stop. She was tired, cold, hungry and ready to get out of her "interview suit", but none the worse for wear.

And not too likely to go out in search of any festive green beer to round out the day.

Legal and Of Age

Older son Alex turned 18 a couple of weeks ago. He's discovered a few things. Hey, I'VE discovered a few things.

I discovered that not only is he old enough to rent R-rated videos and see R-rated movies, he's been old enough to do that for a full year. Yeah, 17 on that one. Chalk one up for the "involved parent".

He discovered that you have to renew your driver's license when you turn 18. Trade in the provisional license for a legal one. It's a vertical card in Texas, rather than a horizontal one, so bouncers at the club can quickly identify the over-21 crowd, but a lot of the restrictions placed on new drivers are now released. The new improved license costs $24, and you have to have it. That old license expires smack on your 18th birthday.

He discovered THAT about 3 days ago when he was getting ready to drive a friend home and on a whim, I asked him to please check his license. Oops. You'd think we'd learn on that one...the same thing happened with older sister Elizabeth. Maybe we'll all get it right when Isaac turns 18. Maybe. In the mean time, he's been walking around as Public Enemy #1 with an expired license. He didn't drive his friend home after all, not that day.

It wasn't any news that he would have to register for the draft, but what he didn't realize is that it's not as simple as they make it out to be. You CAN go down to the Post Office, fill out a card and drop it in the mail. Yes, you can do it that way. OR in these advanced times, you can register online. Go to the Selective Service website, fill in your pertinent information, and in a few days...they will send you a card through the U.S. mail which you can fill out and take to your local Post Office and mail back to them.

He also discovered that he's teetering on the edge of "over the hill" already. It seems that his favorite childhood toys, the "Transformers" robots, have been re-released as "vintage classics". That's startling news to someone so newly legal and of age.

25 servings of Creme Brulee

Class projects. How they have changed since the second grade model of a volcano.

I'll give my kids credit. They have always been pretty good about not putting things off until the last moment. We haven't had too many late, late nights putting finishing touches on whatever it was that was due at 8 the next morning. Perhaps the recurring family story about SOMEONE ( I believe it was a great aunt) who appeared at breakfast and announced that she needed a clothespin dressed like a Roman soldier for school THAT DAY has served its purpose as a warning against the sin of procrastination.

Procrastination isn't the problem. It's the technical details.

Like the culinary torch.

Alex had the opportunity to participate in a convocation of upper level French students. They could speak, they could read, they could act (in French, naturally), or they could participate in "Other Categories". This notion of "Other" intrigued him, and he informed his teacher that he would prepare and present Cappucino Creme Brulee for the consideration of the judges.

This would involve FIRE.

We found the required torch at a kitchen store, made the trip BACK to the store for the fuel (not included), deduced that we did not have an appropriate assortment of ramekins to present 6-8 servings, so added to our ramekin collection. There was a "practice run" at cooking the dessert, the amount of whole coffee beans was adjusted a bit and Alex became quite proficient at separating eggs.

The project was such a success that Alex agreed to prepare his Creme Brulee again for a "class party" on the day before Spring Break. Cooking it wasn't the problem. Even transporting the chilled custards to the school and meeting up with Alex at the right time and place was arranged easily enough.

The problem was - the torch.

The sugar can't be flamed and melted too early or it dissolves away. There was no question of serving without the burnt sugar topping that is the trademark of the dessert. I wasn't too thrilled with the prospect of flaming them all just before running them up to the school, and Alex felt that was his area of expertise, anyway.

But on the other hand, a butane torch is not, as a rule, allowed in school. Certainly it can't sit in a locker all day, yea, it cannot even be in the child's possession.

Why couldn't he have decided to make a cheesecake?

Where there's a will, there's always a way around the rules. I would bring the torch with me when I delivered the Creme Brulee, carry it on my person to the classroom where the teacher agreed that it would be under her "control" for 50 minutes, then I would pick it up and take it home at the end of class, walking straight out of the building (do not stop, do not chat, do not pass go, do not collect $200).

I doubt that the officials at the school would really want to know that the torch was passed around rather liberally, and all who wanted to have a go at carbonizing sugar got to do so.

Alex's status as "The guy with the COOL project" remains intact..

Erotic erratic

Definition: A GLACIAL ERRATIC is a boulder transported and deposited by a glacier having a lithology different than the bedrock upon which it is sitting. Erratics are useful indicators of patterns of former ice flow.

My faith in the American high school experience has been reaffirmed.

Yesterday was a big Science Olympiad competition. Middle schoolers and high schoolers...some 450 of them. Isaac, with team mate Ryan, competed in "Dynamic Planet"; the subject matter for the year is "Glaciers". We've all learned a lot about glaciers and ice bergs in the past 12 months, not the least of these being the names of smaller seagoing ice forms. "Growlers" and "Bergy Bits", anyone?

One hour to do their best, Isaac and Ryan went into the testing room with pencils, a non-programmable calculator and any reference materials they could fit into a 12 x 12 x 3 inch space.

They came back from the test 60 minutes later giggling as only 10th grade boys can giggle.

The test, according to the boys, had had a multiple choice question that gave the definition listed above, a definition that they easily recognized, then gave several choices. The choices included

"Glacial Erratic" and also

"Glacial Erotic".

Oh, my.

I might have thought this pair particularly sheltered, since they found this so funny, until I overheard TWO MORE team groups from other schools ALSO discussing the Erratic/Erotic question.

Yes, there's hope for the future when this question on a high-level science exam causes such excitement.

Practically a Yankee

Over the weekend, I had the opportunity to attend a church stewardship dinner. As luck would have it, I ended up seated at a table with some of the sons of the founding fathers of this community. Men just a generation or two removed from the German immigrants who settled the area. Those whose family names identify the roads and buildings.

I was amused to find that one of the ladies whom I considered to be a true matriarch of the congregation...wasn't. No, it had caused a near scandal many years ago when JB had gone looking for a wife and brought home such an outsider. Lovely, intelligent, talented...but from so far away.

AB came from a town a good hour and a half north.

Practically a Yankee, she was.

I Hope Neither One of Them Cries

Some days, the best thing about being a parent is the chance to meet your children's friends and acquaintances.

Some days, it's not so great.

Isaac plays second chair flute in his band, and he's unhappy about it. Later today he will "challenge" the first chair flute for her position. I love my son. I wish him success and happiness. But, due to a variety of reasons, I also know the first chair flute and my heart breaks for her.

I met "B" a couple of years ago when I had a long-term substitute position and she was in one of the classes. She's quiet, somewhat shy, the oldest in a family of several girls, and at the time, had perhaps more than her fair share of adolescent awkwardness. She's growing out of her awkwardness and is hard-working and dedicated to the band. She always smiles and speaks to me when we see each other, and I'm pleased to see her successes. First chair flute was a major success for her.

Now, Isaac is challenging that success.

Isaac has an advantage in that he performs well under pressure. He has thought his placement was wrong since the day it was posted, and maybe he's right. He has worked all weekend on the challenge music and feels that he is well prepared. Undoubtedly B has also prepared well.

I hope that no matter what, my son is gracious. Win or lose, I hope that he will thank the director for his time, and give a fair report to his private lessons teacher (who is B's teacher as well). If he loses, I hope that he will look B in the eye and congratulate her, but most of all, if he wins, I hope he will be kind and remember that his success is not his alone, and that with greater honor goes greater responsibility.

And I hope neither one of them cries.

Culture Shock

Alex was housebound with strep throat this weekend, so I took advantage of his captivity to do something that I'd been threatening the boys with for months.

We watched "Gone With the Wind".

I'd seen it a couple of times in theaters years ago and when Elizabeth was in middle school she and a friend watched it at a sleepover; I think they fell asleep about 30 minutes into the Reconstruction and missed the steamier scenes with Rhett and Scarlett altogether. It seems that most middle school girls spend a couple of weeks somewhere along the way toting around the unabridged version of the book and sighing over Scarlett's adventures. It's probably worth a boatload of Accelerated Reader points and it can't hurt to tie in to a bit of American History class.

But that's girls. My sons were AWARE of the girls toting the book around, but showed no particular interest in reading it themselves. They knew the names of the battles, they knew the names of the generals, but Scarlett and Mr. O'Hara and Belle Watling were mysteries. The gracious plantation of "Tara" was confusing; they have a cousin with that name, but as a location? No. Even the name "Clark Gable" didn't bring any recognition.

So, we settled in for the epic story. It was every bit as splendid as I remembered, and they were quickly caught up in the characters, the places and the occasional lines of text that scroll across the screen. We took it in turns to read the text aloud.

I was amused to find that they knew exactly what a blockade runner was; after all, the Star Wars movies are full of them. They were astonished to hear Mr. O'Hara refer to "House Darkies" and "Field Darkies" and instruct Scarlett in how to properly relate to "inferiors". It is a credit to the society of which they are a part that such discussion shocks them. They were properly offended at the behaviour of the Carpetbaggers and I think appropriately recognized the good that was Melanie Wilkes. They are ahead of me there; when I read the book for the first time, in middle school, I couldn't bear "Melly". Her character appeals more to maturity, I suppose.

Alex and Isaac may never read the book, and that's fine. But someday, perhaps they will have middle school aged daughters, and when I exercise my right as a grandmother to ordain their reading material and send these imagined young ladies an unabridged copy of "Gone With the Wind", they may remember a bit of the magic. Maybe they will take 4 hours and watch the movie again, taking it in turns to read the scrolling text aloud.

Juvenile Storage

I love "Target". If Target doesn't have it, I probably don't need it. (Except for knitting supplies...they aren't too hot on knitting supplies. But everything else). Still, I was a bit disconcerted the last time I was there to see a large sign advertising specials on "Juvenile Storage".

What?

Didn't know I needed someplace to store my children. They have bedrooms, one each, and they seem to be doing pretty well with those. Perhaps I should look more closely into these boxes or closets or what-have-you meant for Juvenile Storage. Could I close and lock them when I was tired of dealing with the kid? Put them neatly away at the end of the day, folded and with all the parts in order? Perhaps a unit with refrigeration, to extend the sweetness of life with an 8 year old boy, or maybe the model with built-in filters to deal with pre-teen eye-rolling and any whining left over from earlier years?

Juvenile Storage. What a concept.

Nothing, however, compared to Feline Storage.

You can't buy that. You can't build it, plan it, ordain it. The Feline will decide.

And a Mary Christmas to All

Mom and Dad sent me a package last week. Carefully packed in a cardboard shipping box filled with foam peanuts to protect the contents, I found a grocery-sized bag filled with labeled file folders...one for each year of school. I was vaguely aware that the files existed; Dad occasionally sends a few papers or reports or worksheets from my childhood to my own children when they are of a similar age. Now, Dad was cleaning out the basement and wanted to give me the choice to keep or to toss the contents.

Thirteen years of public schooling condensed into one grocery bag. I'm still working my way through the files, and I'm fascinated. So much I remember so clearly, and so much I have forgotten.

I am delighted to have a research paper from high school on "South Africa". I remember "signing up for countries" in Mr. Rohlfing's World History class, and being disappointed because someone had beaten me to "France". Twenty-some pages from a time when spellcheck programs were not generally available and typing errors were painstakingly rubbed out with a brush-ended eraser and maps were drawn and colored by hand. I appear to have gone that extra mile; each map has a fancy hand-drawn and colored border.

I was feeling pretty good about that paper, and the 74 out of a possible 75 points until Isaac looked through it and found a mistake on one of my maps. I'd like to say I could blame it on ever-changing world politics, but I can't. The map is wrong.

The Christmas card at the top of this post is a relic from 1st grade. It's reassuring to know that catching on to homophones (or rather, NOT catching on) is relatively timeless. I'm impressed today with that manger. I still draw mangers pretty much the same way I did when I was 6. Mary (or "Merry", if you will) most obviously had the hand of God upon her. I've had three babies. I certainly didn't feel as "merry" as she appears, just a few hours after having given birth. "Merry" looks as if she is up to offering hors d'oeuvres and wine to the shepherds. I remember now, looking at the picture, the excitement I felt when I figured out how to draw "swaddling clothes". So excited, evidently, that I graced one of the Wise Men with the same costume as the Babe. Inside the card, a rustic stable is lit by a spidery star and a fully decorated Christmas tree. The second Wise Man there bears an uncanny resemblance to Santa. Christmas has always been religious AND secular to me.

Christmas, and the days leading up to it, have always been my favorite time of year. Thanks, Dad and Mom, for extending Christmas 2005 just a little bit longer.

Mini Christmas Stockings

These little socks have been a part of our Christmases ever since I found the pattern in the Denver Post when I was about 14. I've made anywhere from 2 to a dozen new ones nearly every year since then. It has become a point of honor to only use white, red and green yarns, generally in sport weight on size 2 or 3 needles.

Eventually the original newspaper clipping was lost, but this is the pattern that has settled into my mind.

CO 20 stitches. Work 6 rows in garter stitch.

Change yarn colors. Work 16 rows in stockinette stitch.
(These 16 rows can be in one solid color, or a simple pattern can be worked in this section)

End with a purl row, break off all but one color to work the foot.

On next row, knit across 13 stitches, turn work
Purl back across 6 stitches
Work back and forth on these 6 stitches only for 6 more rows (forming top of foot)

Pick up 6 stitches along side of foot section, Knit across 6 stitches, Pick up 6 more stitches along other side of foot section, knit remaining 7 stitches. You should have 30 stitches on the needle.
Purl back across these 30 stitches.

Decrease rows:
Row 1: Knit 2 together, Knit 12, K 2 together, K 12, Knit 2 together.
27 stitches on needle
Row 2: Purl
Row 3: Knit 2 together, knit 10, knit 2 together, knit 9, knit 2 together.
24 stitches on needle
Row 4: Purl
Row 5: Knit 2 together, knit 9, knit 2 together, knit 9, knit 2 together.
21 stitches on needle
Row 6: Purl

Bind off all stitches, leaving a tail of yarn to sew up bottom of foot and back of leg of stocking.

Seamless iPod Stocking

Nothing coomplicated here, but people who see these think they probably need one. Something about the cuteness factor.

Size 3 double point needles
Small amount of self-striping light weight sock yarn

Cast on 36 stitches, divide onto DP needles and join.
Work 10 rows in 2 X 2 ribbing

Switch to stockinette stitch (knit every round) and work until piece measures 4 inches from beginning. On last round, place one marker at beginning of round and another marker after 18th stitch, complete round.

Dec round 1: **(slip marker, K1, K2tog, K12, K2tog, K1)**, repeat once, 32 stitches
Knit one round even
Dec round 2: **(slip marker, K1, K2tog, K10, K2tog, K1)**, repeat once, 28 stitches
Knit one round even

Divide remaining stitches evenly onto 2 needles and graft the "toe" together using Kitchener Stitch.

Weave in yarn ends.

Engineering Time

Quite a few years ago, I studied to be a chemical engineer. One of my professors taught us the concept of "Engineering Time". It's a corollary of Murphy's Law, I think, and I imagine other professions could claim it as well. Here's how it works.

Engineering Time:
Make your best estimate as to how long a project will take to complete.
Double the number and expand the units to the next higher order.

Example:
Project estimation - 2 hours
Engineering Time - 4 days

Depressing? Yep. But all too often true.

I was reminded of Engineering Time when I answered a call to supply a couple of banners for the church. The logic was sound. We have banners for the Liturgical Seasons. Purple ones for Lent. Green ones for Epiphany. Blue ones in Advent. However, we lacked any "General Purpose" banners for "White Days of Celebration". Days that pop up in the middle of Seasons of Color. "The Baptism of Our Lord". Transfiguration. Maundy Thursday. "Christ the King" Sunday.

The need was there, I was confident that I could provide something classic, timeless and appropriate.

I estimated that the project would take 3 weeks.

This was last July. Right. You can probably see where THIS is going.

Back in July, I was in no hurry. I didn't see that we would NEED those banners before Christ the King Sunday. Mid-November. Lots of time. I played with some designs, considered some options, shopped for some materials, made some plans, and then went full speed ahead into Marching Band Season. Suffice it to say that NO banners were constructed between July and November 8 (see November Blog entry about Polishing Shoes). With a Saturday and a couple of late nights, one banner was hanging on November 20, Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday of the Church Year.

The next week meant Advent, a New Year, a new beginning, and a chance to work on that second banner.

Which would have been fine, except for a shortage of the gold braid needed for the Celtic knotwork design. And some extensive searches for some MORE of that gold braid. And Christmas. And a daughter home from college, and presents to wrap and cookies to bake and general merriment and celebration.

Last Sunday, January 8, was the Baptism of Our Lord. The white banners, BOTH of them, were hanging in places of honor. They were much admired. My work was validated.

The final stitches were put in place on Friday afternoon, January 6.

Engineering Time.
3 weeks = 6 months.

Yes, it does.

The Boyfriend Sweater

Despite the stigma attached to knitting a sweater for your boyfriend, this one worked. I made it for not-yet-husband Dave for Christmas of 1981. We were married in summer of 1982, so maybe the fact that we were already engaged cancelled the Boyfriend Sweater Curse. I don't know. Just know that the sweater and the husband are still both around.

I know the folklore about "always knitting an error in the design". You're not perfect, only God is perfect, don't tempt the fates, etc, etc. I don't believe I've ever had to put that error in "on purpose". It always seems to find me anyway. What I didn't count on was having the error show up in the closeup pattern photo, too. There you go. Proof positive. I'm not perfect.

Aran weight wool.

The Rogue Sweater

Knitted from commercial pattern "Rogue" by "The Girl From Auntie".

Rogue Instructions

Completed in 5 weeks in January-February of 2004. Made for daughter Elizabeth. The true color is close to the closeup shot of the top of the hood in progress.

Double strand of fingering weight alpaca yarn. I was concerned that the cable details would be lost with the softer yarn, but it was fine.

In my everlasting quest to cut down on work for myself, I converted the flat-knit, seamed sleeves to sleeves knitted in the round.

Using up some heavy sock yarn

Even lightweight wool socks are too warm for this part of Texas, most of the time, so when I had 2 skeins of "Big Mexiko" (heavier weight) sock yarn, I knew I was never going to turn it into socks. I decided to see how the "self striping" aspect would work if I used it on a toddler sized sweater. Not that I have any toddlers or even know any whose moms don't already knit for them. I figured I could always give it away.

I also wanted to try one of the "no seams anywhere" neck-down patterns. This was a good excuse, and knitting something small would be quick.

Of course, 2 skeins wasn't enough, so I ordered a third one, which would SURELY be plenty. It wasn't, so I ended up ordering a 4th. This turned it into a fairly expensive toddler sweater that I hadn't even planned to make.

If I did this again, I'd use a solid color for the front/neck bands.

Foreign Languages

There are many good things about being a parent. The "best thing" changes from day to day, year to year. The "best thing about being a parent" is different when you have a six-year old from what the "best thing" is when you have a teenager.

Today, the best thing about being a parent is the chance to learn foreign languages.

I don't mean the German or Latin that your child chooses to learn that you never studied. That's a small part of the picture, but not the real story. I don't mean the "family speak" that crops up as children learn to talk, make mistakes and the family lovingly takes these new words into the private family lexicon. We refer to a certain striped-tail, masked mammal as a "ratoonka" because that's what Alex called it when his mouth and brain were still learning to connect, but that's not the foreign language I mean, either.

I'm talking about the languages that seem like you should understand them. They're words mostly in the language you speak day-to-day with your child, but they throw in words that might as WELL be German or Latin, because you've sure never heard them before.

With my daughter, the foreign language started when she took up Debate in high school. "Lincoln-Douglas style"? The words sounded familiar, but the way she was using them made no sense. By her senior year, I'd learned a whole new language. Now she studies computer science and lobster neurons and speaks of "Machine learning", and I don't have a clue what she's talking about. But she's teaching me, and I'm catching on.

My younger son took an interest in marine biology and taught me the words "Sirenian" and "Dugong". I thought I already knew the word "Manatee", but he showed me that I didn't know the word at all.

I had no idea that there was a foreign language called "Metal Miniatures", but it seems there is, and my middle child has been teaching it to me. He's played strategy games for years, collected cards, books and dice to help him "play better", but until recently, I hadn't paid much attention to his small metal figures of real and imaginary characters. Suddenly the child who could barely endure classroom "art time" is telling me the differences between "natural and artificial bristle brushes". The child who didn't care if his crayoned skies were blue or purple is discussing the ongoing debate between "metallic and non-metallic paints for simulated metal surfaces". There is, evidently, a large difference between just plain "black" and "Zombie Black", and not just ANY red will do for the jacket of a miniature Cossack figure.

The new language includes a new patience that I never knew he had. The same child who once wept at the enormity of a 3rd grade project that involved tying a couple of hundred plastic strips together to make a Christmas wreath now patiently and carefully paints details the size of the head of a pin on little people and animals no taller than a quarter. It seems there are a lot of other people out there who speak this new language, too. The words "an elephant that went for $900 on ebay" sure caught my attention! I wonder what else he knows?

What new language are you learning today?

Christmas Cookies

I ate the last Christmas cookie yesterday.

One lonely Russian Teacake left in the bottom of the cookie box on a bed of crumpled waxed paper and surrounded by puffs of escaped powdered sugar. As always, it was just a spot too large for one bite, but biting it in half meant a shower of snowy sugar on my face, on my hands, on the floor. I risked the single-bite approach, and I wasn't sorry. The cookie was every bit as good as the first one of the season, buttery, flavored with vanilla and studded with Texas pecan chips.

I had to eat it, you see. Christmas, the season, ended yesterday. Today, we enter the season of Epiphany. The season of revelations, of understanding, of comprehension. Just 12 days of the miracle of Christmas, but we get weeks and weeks of Epiphany to think about it.

If Epiphany reveals one thing to me, it's the fact that Christmas cookies are essential to the season. Not just the Russian Teacakes, either. The love affair dates back to the mid 60's when my grandmothers would mail tempting parcels, brown paper wrapped, string tied, and filled with home made Christmas cookies and candies. Fudge. Divinity. Frosted sugar cookies. Rock hard Pfeffernusse.

My mother added to the mix with Date Pinwheels and pressed Spritz (green trees required, dogs and camels required, snowflakes and flowers acceptable as long as the dough held out). Some years there were new experiments, some years we relied on old favorites. Christmas dinner was not complete without a "cookie plate"; it was the only dessert we planned, it was the only dessert we needed.

My grandmothers' cookie baking days are over, and we all think a bit more about the fat and calories and fiber (or lack thereof) while planning that cookie plate, but there's no way we could give it up entirely. My 17 year old son has emerged as the fudge-making champion of the next generation. The one time we tried to make Grandma's Divinity, the cat jumped on the table and stepped in the pan. I'll accept that as a sign that we were not meant to make Divinity here. We have added and subtracted favorites through the years as time and inspiration have dictated.

It's just not Christmas here without Christmas cookies, and yesterday, I ate the last one.

Maybe tomorrow I'll take down the tree.

Irony

Last night, I had the honor of attending a reception for our school district's AP Scholars. An "AP Scholar" has passed 3 or more Advanced Placement exams with scores of 3 or higher. It's exciting. It's an honor. It's also an accomplishment. The AP classes and tests are meant to be on par with freshman-level college classes. An ambitious high school student could, in theory, earn enough "AP credits" to bypass his freshman year at many major universities. Those reaching "AP Scholar" status comprise less than 2% of the students in the nation. Our district offers AP classes in several sciences, calculus, history, English composition, foreign language, computer science, probably other subjects as well.

The young men and women who were there have bright futures ahead of them. They listened as the guest speaker, our local state representative, mapped out those futures, with an emphasis on forward thinking and change and a belief in yourself and your abilities.

This morning, I opened the daily paper to see that the state Governor "Wants to add Intelligent Design to science classes. He thinks the concept is 'valid scientific theory'".

Never mind the fact that the State Board of Education voted down a measure in 2003 to add stickers to current SCIENCE books and reprint future version to include ID. He wants it back in the main arena, and elections are coming up.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

the·o·ry P Pronunciation Key (th-r, thîr)
n. pl. the·o·ries
A set of statements or principles devised to explain a group of facts or phenomena, especially one that has been repeatedly tested OR is widely accepted and can be used to make predictions about natural phenomena.

New York City on $7 a day

Over Thanksgiving weekend, Isaac and 150 band members and 50-some chaperones and family members went to New York City. The real reason for the trip was to march in a parade, but once that many people go that far, it's wise to stay a little longer and see the sights. So, they did. One night in Philadelphia, 3 nights in Newark.

The logistics of the travel plans are the thing of nightmares. 5 groups, leaving at 5 different times, 5 different flight plans with different layovers and different arrival times. Busses, room mate decisions, box breakfasts. In truth, the trip was very well organized and went off with only minor catastrophes (Isaac's group had an unexpected 5 hour layover at the Dulles airport, one bus got in a wreck, some clowns in the parade heckled the band, borrowed a flag from a flag team member and hit her with it, just minor things). It was an experience that the teenagers and parents involved will never forget.

While the majority of the trip and sightseeing were planned by a travel agency, there were certain activities and meals that were "optional" and up to the individuals. A couple of lunches, snacks, a dinner. There would be time to SHOP on 5th Avenue on the day after Thanksgiving. There would be ample opportunities for souvenirs. All of this meant one thing.

Bring money.

Bring a lot of money.

The band directors and sponsors gave helpful advice. Protect your assets by splitting them; one wallet in your pocket, one in your backpack. Budget your funds. Don't spend it all on the first day. Don't forget to tip the waitperson in a restaurant.

Life lessons.

As most parents did, we considered carefully just how much spending money was "appropriate". We gave Isaac some, he added a generous amount of his own saved allowances. A $20 bill was zipped into his jacket pocket, "just in case". He was reminded one last time to NOT spend it all the first day, or he'd be the kid with no lunch money for the airport on the return flights.

He returned from the trip with all but $35.

Seven dollars a day spent en route to and in one of the major commercial opportunities in the country. He said he could have kept it to $5 a day, except for that layover at the airport...he'd read all of his books and bought a "Star Wars" novel for the return flight.

He assures me that he did not feel in any way deprived. He didn't go hungry, but the street corner hotdog vendor was more interesting than a sitdown restaurant, not to mention cheaper. He saw a lot of things to buy, but nothing he needed. He didn't need a lightup Statue of Liberty, he didn't need a sweatshirt emblazoned with "I HEART NY", he didn't need a keyring, pencil, pen or stuffed animal. He briefly considered a $5 "Rolex" watch, but suspected that it might not be "real" (no pulling the wool over the eyes of THAT kid!)

He doesn't think he'd do anything differently if he took the trip again.

Except, next time, he'd take a camera.

Life lessons.

The Calendar

We always (always, ALWAYS!) have a hanging wall calendar in our kitchen by the phone. It is MESSAGE CENTRAL. I don’t care about your Dayplanner, your PalmPilot, your classroom agenda book. If it isn’t on the kitchen calendar...it ain’t happening. Needless to say, we start penciling in notes on the NEXT year around September, so I always shop early for the next year’s kitchen calendar ( there IS the yearly offering from our mortgage loan guy, but he tends toward little magnetic refrigerator calendars, which are not the same thing at all). This year, I got lucky (or so I thought). Late last summer, the U-Colorado Alumni folks sent me a gorgeous full color hanging calendar with scenes from the campus. Perfect. Calendar dilemma solved.

Until yesterday, when I started transferring over some notes and pre-arranged substitute dates, and discovered, much to my dismay, that the lovely full-color photos of the campus acted as carbon paper (do they still MAKE carbon paper?), and transferred everything from January to February, everything from February to March. This was not acceptable. No way, no how. So, TODAY, on the second of January, we put out an all-points search for a new calendar. I briefly considered “365 Knitting Patterns”, but bought that only for fun, and for the bill-paying-desk...the desktop style calendar does not work for the kitchen. We also rejected (thankyouverymuch) the “365 Sex Positions” calendar. While it was amusing, somehow we don’t think 2 teenaged boys in the house need any extra help in the imagination department. What to do? I considered borrowing, PERMANENTLY, Isaac’s carefully chosen “The Hobbit – the original illustrations” calendar, but kept looking.

Luckily, Dave and I both found alternatives, concurrently although in different places. I found “Cats and Bible Verses” at the grocery store, and bought it, for lack of anything better (although our own cats are FAR cuter, and I'm not quite sure how the 23rd Psalm relates to felines). At the same time, in another part of the city, Dave found PINK FLAMINGOES, and as flamingoes are my secret vice, he figured that was perfect. And it was. A pencil test proved that the pink ink did not, indeed, transfer to the next month, and we will experience pink birds for the next 12 months.

Why, you may ask, if flamingoes are my vice, did Alex and Isaac team up to give Mom a full sized Canadian Goose decoy for Christmas? Life’s little mysteries. But they did. Even now, it stands proudly in the dining room with red and green bows about its stately neck, seeming to be just temporarily stranded as it waits for warmer weather up North to call it home again.

Holy Family Picnic

Nothing says Christmas like a Holy Family Picnic.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

And there were, in that region, shepherds, eating fried chicken by night. And an angel of the Lord stood before them, and they were sore afraid! But the angel said to them, "Put those drumsticks into a basket and go see what you find in Bethlehem!"

And they went, and they found Mary, and Joseph, and the Babe, wrapped in a picnic tablecloth.

Wise men from the East also came, bearing with them gifts of Cold Leftovers and More. These they offered before the child and his mother, and Mary kept all of these things, pondering them in her heart and serving up a fine lunch to Joseph the next day.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. I drove by this display 3 times a week during December. I found the ropes and cords a bit alarming, but I expected they would mean that the entire display would be lighted sometime. Perhaps, surely, on Christmas Eve?

It wasn't.

Polishing Shoes

Does anyone polish shoes any more? This almost seems a lost art in the days of athletic shoes, artificial "leathers" and easy-care suedes. Be that as it may, tonight I'm polishing shoes.

I have some experience in this area; 40 years ago I used to watch my father as he performed the weekly ritual; as a businessman often in the public eye, he dressed neatly and his shoes were the finishing touch. Always two pair, black and brown. Tuck the laces carefully inside the shoes. Brush off any dust and clinging dirt. Open those enchanting little cans with a Kiwi bird on the top, rub a soft cloth in the deep, dark swirls of waxy polish. Rub the polish well into the shoe leather, with careful attention to the toes and creases in the leather. Finally, buff the leather to a shine with a new, soft cloth.

Along with Dad's business shoes, there were white baby shoes (with a strange-smelling white liquid polish), then school shoes in browns, reds and navy. A "neutral" clear polish sufficed for all of these, and on Monday mornings, my school shoes would be shining like new, ready to walk out and face another day.

Somewhere along the way, I took over the polishing of my own shoes, and eventually, I even polished Dad's. Sometimes we would work together, with solemn father-daughter discussion or silly jokes shared as the polish was rubbed in, rubbed off. Eventually I moved away from home, and my new home was not complete until I had my own box of shoe polishing supplies. Soft cloths, a brush, and those little cans of polish with the Kiwi bird on top.

Shoe polishing was my realm when I married and had my own children. I prepared my husband's shoes when he interviewed for the jobs that took us from Colorado to California, California to Minnesota and Minnesota to Texas. I never saw it as a chore; polishing the shoes was an act of service, an act of love, and a vote of confidence.

Somewhere along the way, three children found their ways into the high topped white baby shoes, Velcro athletic shoes, and finally with a cry of triumph, the loops and tails went where they belonged and they learned the fine art of shoelace tying. The art of polishing shoes, however, seemed nearly forgotten.

Until we found ourselves immersed in marching band.

Marching shoes are black. Black leather. Black, shiny, mirror bright leather. Occasional rains and muddy football fields and damp parade marching require that the shoes be polished on a regular basis. My marching children know how to polish their black marching shoes, and do this on a regular schedule.

But tonight, I'm polishing a pair of marching shoes one more time.

It's an act of love, of service, and most of all, of admiration.

Tomorrow afternoon, my youngest son, with 150 other young men and women, will march into the AlamoDome in 4A Level State Marching Finals. They will march a carefully rehearsed show that lasts just under 8 minutes. There are no questions about where or when or how fast. They will perform to the best of their ability, and to the enthusiastic applause of parents, siblings and friends.

No one expected this in August. A 3-year-old school has no REAL expectations of making it all the way to the top, to State Competition. But they did. A combination of superb leadership, dedicated parents and children-fast-becoming-adults resulted in a competition band that defied the odds.

I will watch my son perform with joy and pride, but a sense of humility as well. His own determination and dedication put him on the field.

I just polish the shoes.

Band Story: A postscript

Yesterday was a highly competitive marching competition in our area. The Westlake Marching Festival.

CHS and HHS both competed. HHS placed second in its class. Due to scheduling conflicts (SAT exam), CHS chose to compete in a higher class, later in the day. They did not place in that class, but marched well.

The top 10 scoring bands advance to Finals competition. At the end of the preliminary rounds (about 5:30 in the afternoon) the announcer reads the names of the bands that will advance.

"In No Particular Order"...so he says.

We listened, with hearts in throats. We knew we had done well, but was it well ENOUGH? And since CHS had not placed in the higher class, it was hard to know just how they had scored.

The names were read. In no particular order.

1, 2, 3, 4...you know we are counting in our heads...how many more names to read?

5, 6, 7...and still neither name we want to hear.

8. No.

9. HHS!
10. CHS!

Once more, the "rival" bands cheered loudly...for each other.

Finals competition was at night, between 7:30 and 10:15.

6th in finals (up one place from last year at same competition) - HHS

5th in finals (up one place from last year at same competition) - CHS

I like to think that Abraham was smiling down on all of us, just a little.

A Band Story

8 days ago, every parent's and band director's worst nightmare came true...a 15 year old trumpet player at our local arch-rival school was killed in a car accident. Car full of band students, going to get a bite to eat before the Friday night game. The community, was, understandably, in shock.

Last night, our school (HHS) played their school (CHS) in football. So far, in the three years our school has been open, this game has always been a disaster for us, but we keep hoping...

The administration at our school wondered what could be done to promote more of a shared spirit between the two school in place of the intense rivalry.

When the idea was presented to have the band boosters prepare a meal for 400 (Our band, CHS band, and various assorted directors, school staff and the Booster officers of both bands), I was skeptical, but stepped up to the plate.

I finally asked...WHO is in charge of this shindig? Where's the spaghetti coming from, etc?

Dr. E.
Our principal.

OK....well, I guess she certainly can get permission to use the big cafeteria kitchen if she wants to...

Well. Not only can she get permission, she knows how to SHOP. And how to steer a dozen band parents into work teams to serve spaghetti and meatballs, penne pasta with veggies, tossed salad, bread sticks, sliced watermelon, brownies and beverages to 400.

I chopped bell peppers and onions, cleaned and chopped broccoli and put croutons in big bowls. Others opened cans of sauce and boiled noodles and heated breadsticks and made gallons of lemonade. They do say that kids join band to learn new skills. I just didn’t realize that meant the parents, too.

And the best part? Those who cooked didn't have to clean up.

When CHS walked into the cafeteria, the HHS band stood up and cheered.

The bands were fed, fellowship was had, and Isaac met another male flute.

I was introduced to CHS's uniform mom. We compared notes on hems and organizational spreadsheets.

The principals and band directors of HHS and CHS have spoken. As long as they are on the staff at both schools, the HHS/CHS pre-game dinner will be a tradition. (The CHS principal did say that they might do better to find a head cook other than himself next year when it's at CHS!)

The HHS band wore green ribbons on their uniforms last night, in honor of Abraham G, trumpet, age 15.

Abraham was buried Wednesday. In his band uniform.

The Black Panterra

Go back in time, young grasshopper.

Spring of 1976, in Lakewood, Colorado, a suburb of Denver. Lakewood
reaches westward and just touches the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.
Heaven can’t be any better than Summer in the foothills. Winter means just
enough snow to practice cross-country skiing, but not enough to be
bothersome. Fall is crisp, with leaves that turn color and early evenings with
hot, home made soups and books by the fireside.

Then there is the Spring. What can one say about Spring in the foothills
except that it is...windy. That wind comes whistling off the mountaintops,
gathers momentum as it zips over the glaciers, swirls down the river-cut
canyons and arrives in icy gusts of up to 60 miles per hour in the
streets...and parking lots...of Lakewood.

Spring of 1976. I was a junior in high school. Enrolled in a challenging
course of study including upper level math classes, English Composition,
Concert Choir, European History...and Computer Programming. I was an
honors student, yea, I was first in my class.

Brains, alas, do not always equate to common sense. So shall you see.
Think for a moment on the Computer Science class. Computers in 1976 were not what computers are in 2005. The computer itself was huge and housed in an administration building somewhere in the middle of the district. Each school had terminals that connected into the main computer. Programs were typed into large keyboard machines and stored on punched paper tapes. The language of the day was BASIC.

I was part of a unique subset of girls who invaded the usually masculine
realm of the computer classes, the computer room, the teletype terminals,
the paper tapes. My proudest possession was my handheld calculator which I wore in a case on my belt. That calculator was 4 times the size of today’s true POCKET models, cost 10 times as much, and did only a fraction of what a CASIO model from the grocery store can accomplish today. It also had a red LED display which ate batteries like breakfast cereal. Still, I was one of the lucky elite. I HAD a portable calculator! We were not allowed to use them in class (for class we had log tables and protractors), but we could carry them on our persons and enjoy their attributes between classes and at lunch.

I also had a boyfriend. I may have belonged to the nerd set, but I had an
equally nerdy boyfriend. His name was Dean, he went to a different high
school , and he was the districtwide, undisputed master of the computer
science students. His “fun project” was an intra-school message system. In
2005, you have e-mail. In 1976, we had MESSY, a long-forgotten acronym
for a program which meant “Rush to the computer room in between classes and log in to see if you have any new messages”. Dean wrote the code, implemented the system, and went on to a brilliant career in computer programming for various Silicon Valley, California corporations. MESSY connected us, school to school, class to class and student to student. Outside of class time, Dean was a moviemaker at heart. He had a vision...sort of a Sci-Fi thriller starring a bunch of nerds with belt loop calculators at the ready. Dean was ahead of his time; Lucas’ “Star Wars” and Light Sabers were still a year in the future. Dean’s movie required one element to which he did not have access...a hot sports car. His vision for the movie required a black Detomaso Panterra. He drove his mom’s Buick.

While he didn’t have the hot sports car, he did have a hot girlfriend.

No, wait.

He had...me. The brainy nerd girlfriend. Who happened to drive...a hot car.
Not my car. No, back in 1976 very few teenagers had their own cars. They
had, if they were lucky, access to the FAMILY car. Fortunate families had
more than one car. My family was fortunate.

In addition to my father’s business sedan, my mother had a beautiful,
shining Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, the sports car of the VW line. It was
bright, bright ORANGE. Once I mastered the stick shift, I was allowed to
drive the Ghia to piano lessons, to Girl Scouts, occasionally to the mall, and
on rare, rare occasions, to meet my friends. In return, I put gas in the car
whenever I drove it. In 1976, one could do some serious benefit to the gas
tank with one dollar. Gas hovered around 29 cents per gallon.

When Dean saw the orange Ghia, his wish appeared to be granted. It wasn’t a black Panterra, but it WAS a cool sports car, and the plans began to gel. The movie camera was borrowed. The cast was assembled. Calculators were buckled onto belts. I was granted permission to use the Ghia for an afternoon.

What I didn’t mention to my mother was that the car was going to be
transformed with black poster paint. The whole CAR wasn’t going to be
painted, oh, no. Just the doors...emblazoned with BLACK PANTERRA in
painted script, just large enough and dark enough to get the idea across. The words were painted and the cameras rolled. Since I was the only person with permission to drive the car, I was featured heavily in the film.

All went well until the filming was finished. I pulled the car around the
parking lot in one final loop, braked to a stop with gravel flying and stopped
the engine. I opened the driver’s side door and prepared to step out of the
car when disaster struck.

That wind, which started its swirling descent atop a 14,000 foot peak, gained momentum across the glaciers and whistled down the canyons, came across the school parking lot like a blast from some icy realm of Hell. It whipped around the car and jerked the door from my hand, pulling the entire door backward and away from its carefully constructed hinges. There was a sickening creak and crunch, and I realized that I was going to be in serious trouble.

Dean and I borrowed a bucket and a sponge from a school custodian and
wiped away the false pride emblazoned on the car’s injured door. Dean went his way and I went mine, doomed to confess my transgressions to the true owner of the orange Ghia.

Allowances and baby-sitting wages don’t go very far toward car repairs.